


staked through the heart and you're to blame (you give love a bad name)

by biggrstaffbunch



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Buffy the Vampire Slayer References, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2013-07-13
Packaged: 2017-12-19 08:13:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/881515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biggrstaffbunch/pseuds/biggrstaffbunch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn's a vampire slayer and Niall's a vampire and it's all as star-crossed as it sounds. But also, maybe it's not. </p><p>(Featuring Liam as a Watcher that would give a certain Sunnydale librarian heart palpitations and Louis as the hell-raising--but not in the literal sense--sidekick. Plus, Harry.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	staked through the heart and you're to blame (you give love a bad name)

**Author's Note:**

> This is for Katie, Caitlin, and Lindsay--who cheered on from the very beginning. Thanks to Hannah and Any and many others who looked this over. Dedicated to #ramfam and #marrieds (even though I'm only in love w/you all) because why NOT?

Zayn can smell the creature before he sees it.

This is half because Zayn is a vampire slayer, charged by sacred birthright to dispatch demons of the night and therefore equipped with certain skills, and half because the creature in question smells like a greasy paper bag.

"I didn't think vampires ate anything but blood," Zayn says, stepping out of the shadows. He considers feeling creepy about skulking, but to be fair, the other guy did it first.

A sigh, and then the other guy in question turns around, skinny and pale with bright blue eyes and messy blonde hair. He's wearing the most ridiculously huge sweatshirt that Zayn's ever seen and holding a massive sack of chips. If Zayn's correct, they're loaded with vinegar; gross.

"'M not your average type," the blonde says. "Even as a human, I was hungrier than the next bloke." He smiles, and despite the sharky nature of his glinting teeth, it's a nice smile. "'Lo, Zayn."

"Heya, Niall." Zayn salutes. "You're looking drawn these days."

Niall narrows his eyes and burrows deeper into his sweatshirt. It says BRITNEY SPEARS WORLD TOUR across the front in big letters over the faded image of her face. He looks like a sulky teenager.

Zayn knows better.

"I'm a vampire," Niall says snippily, tugging on his fringe. "I'm _supposed_ t' be this color."

Zayn shrugs, hands tucked into the pockets of his leather jacket. "Just looking out for you, duck," he answers solicitously, because he knows condescension from someone, like, 100 years younger pisses Niall off.

Niall sighs again, reaches into the chip bag. "Want one?" he offers. They begin walking together, keeping well into the shadows.

Zayn makes a face. "D'you get them with vinegar just because you can't taste them, or because you know _I_ can?" he snarks, but takes one anyway.

His hand brushes Niall, cool skin against his own, and something hot swoops through his belly. He's unaccountably annoyed at himself, and curls his other hand needlessly around the stake in his pocket.

"Both," Niall says glumly. "Probably outta everything I miss the most from when I was alive, real food is numero uno."

Zayn cocks an eyebrow. "Not, you know, a soul?" he asks, more curious than unkind.

Niall shrugs. "Don't need a soul to be good. Plenty of humans do shitty things and they've got souls, yeah?" He munches on a chip. "Just need to make the right choices."

Zayn groans. This is what frustrates him the most. When Niall makes things sound so simple, like the world is easy to understand even though it isn't all black and white. Like vampires aren't all demons, and evil, and meant to be killed by...well, Zayn.

"Hey." Niall stops, hand curled around Zayn's wrist, fingers slick from the oil of the chips, thumb swiping Zayn's pulse. He leans close, nose brushing Zayn's ear. "Stop thinking so hard."

He grins, disarming and blinding, and there goes that hot sensation diving through Zayn's gut again.

"Someone's got to think," Zayn retorts. "One of these days, you're gonna wanna move past animal blood. Your palate is like, perpetually unsatisfied." Zayn looks down. "And then I'll have to kill you."

Niall huffs a " _Christ_ ," more for effect than anything, and tugs Zayn closer. The chip bag is crushed between them, and they're wedged in an alleyway. London looms around them, and the mouth of Hell teems below them. There's an entire council of old men that would tell Zayn to shove a stake through Niall's heart right now, and there's an instinctual drive that should be telling Niall to go for Zayn's throat.

Instead, Niall leans in, slants his mouth across Zayn's, and kisses him.

His lips are soft and dry, his hands deft and sure, and for all that he's a nocturnal sort of bloke, something like sunlight streams through Zayn's blood as their mouths move restlessly together. Niall tastes of vinegar, and of something undefinable, and another surge of helpless longing rockets through Zayn's belly.

"Next week," Zayn says weakly, when they part. He slumps against the brick wall behind him.

Niall smirks. "Next week, what?" he asks, tongue darting out to lick a remnant of salt from Zayn's lip.

"I'll stake you next week." Zayn says it like he is trying to convince himself, squaring his shoulders even as his heart still races.

Niall laughs, a sweet, broad sound of genuine mirth. "Okay," he agrees. "So didja stalk me tonight just for a quick snog, or...? Only, X-Factor is on, and I don't wanna miss the eliminations."

He leans in, voice low, eyes darkened. "Not that I wasn't pleased t' oblige."

Zayn narrows his gaze. "Evil," he accuses, without heat.

Niall smirks again. "G'nite, Slayer," he says, skimming his knuckles down Zayn's cheek.

And then he's gone, vanishing in the low level fog that always seems to envelope London this time of year, electric pink hoodie lost in the dark. Distantly, Zayn can hear an Irish drinking song whistled into the night, until that, too, fades.

Zayn stays in the alleyway for a little while longer, listening to the city unfold around him, the smell and taste of Niall still heavy on his skin and tongue.

"G'nite," he finally breathes, and begins the long walk home.

  
|

 

The first time Zayn sees Niall, he’s standing in front of the moon.

Zayn’s just slayed a newborn vamp, soil still clinging to its ridged features before it collapses into ashes. Adrenaline pumping through his veins, Zayn looks up from his low crouch, muscles twitching, and catches sight of something pale and lithe between the tall spires of the cemetery headstones.

On a hill, lanky form in a slight slouch, bright red snapback on backwards, hands in his pockets and wearing a black henley and worn jeans with the biggest pair of Supras on the planet, stands someone so bright he cuts through even the grey-black of a London night.

It’s almost poetic, really, the way the Earth shifts under Zayn’s feet at the sight of him. He’s just an outline, a strong profile and elegant limbs and this big fat circle of luminous light framing his form, but. He’s pretty.

And Zayn’s always been a sucker for pretty things.

It’s a shame, though, because even as he treks up the hill, panting slightly for breath, there’s that little tingle at the base of his spine tells Zayn all he needs to know about who--what--this person is.

But then the guy smiles, big and sweet, eyes crinkling, and a tiny piece of Zayn falls away, leaving him feeling like a crumbling hill of dirt. Like dust.

“Hi,” he says faintly.

“Heya,” the man says. He sticks his hand out, and when Zayn absently takes it, shakes Zayn’s hand enthusiastically. “My name’s Niall, mate, how are ya?”

Zayn isn’t sure what to say, but it doesn’t matter. Niall shrugs and plows on.

“Good slayin’ down there,” he notes, all lazy grace as he drapes over a headstone “The last one was clumsy, got killed super easy.” He looks speculatively at Zayn, and his eyes--Zayn suddenly kind of understands what people mean when they call something ‘piercing.’ He feels like his heart is fucking bleeding right now.

“Won’t happen to me,” Zayn answers, arms folding, defiant even as his voice goes thin at the breath now wavering out of him. “‘M pretty good.”

Niall cocks his head, looks at him for a long moment. “Yeah,” he says finally. “Reckon you are.”

And then he chucks Zayn under the chin. Like he's a _child_. And strolls away before Zayn can even react, swallowed by the dark.

Niall is the first and only vampire Zayn lets walk away from him alive. Well. Undead.

And Niall is definitely the first and only vampire Zayn ever snogs.

 

|

 

“You snogged him _again_?” Liam asks, and he sounds almost plaintive enough to make Zayn feel guilty.

“It just happens,” Zayn responds defensively, perched on top of a barstool. “Like, it’s almost supernatural.” He brightens. “Hey! Maybe it _is_ supernatural.”

Liam sighs. “You can’t blame the forces of evil for this,” he says, tone severe. “Only your bad taste.”

Zayn scowls and takes a bite of his pastry. “‘S not bad taste,” he mutters sullenly. “Niall’s fit. For someone who’s...you know, a vampire.”

Liam’s eye twitches. “A vampire,” he repeats grimly. “Your vampire--”

“Niall,” Zayn supplies helpfully, spinning in his stool, mouth full of crumbs.

“--yes, okay, Niall,” Liam amends, looking droopy. “He’s reanimated. As in, a walking corpse.” His vaguely glum expression takes on a more despairing edge. “One that you’ve a sworn duty to slay!”

Zayn grins at Liam’s slight whinge and reaches up to muss his hair, nearly toppling over in his seat. “Aw. C’mon, Liam. Is that what’s got your knickers twisted? Worried about the council demoting you ‘cause your slayer is snogging a vampire? Think they’ll take you away and you’ll never see my face again?”

Liam’s eye twitches again, more violently this time. “I’ve never wished for anything more,” he says, very very seriously.

Then, with another sigh, he turns and disappears through the swinging doors to the kitchen, muttering all the while under his breath.

Zayn snickers and sips his tea, breathing in steam and basking in his favorite pastime of winding up the most wound-up bloke in all of England: Liam Payne, reluctant Watcher.

Settling back against the bar, Zayn tips his head and takes in the warm, cozy cafe. The smell of tea and old ink permeates the small room, where crumbling books sit alongside cups of Earl Grey and the misshapen pastries encased in smudged display cabinets. It’s a rather haphazard sort of establishment, with chairs and tables of varying sizes and wood finishes, and a frightening mural of a Wendigo flying through Van Gogh’s Starry Night painted all across the back wall. But it’s a fitting homebase for Zayn and Liam and their eclectic little group and their eclectic little mission of dispatching the forces of evil.

Speaking of...

“You snogged the vampire again?!”

The door slams open and in strides a young man with untidy brown hair and a sharp smile, an innate kindness softening the almost cruel cut of his features. Behind him trails a taller boy with darker, curlier hair and the deceptively bored expression of someone who wants everyone to think he’s stupid.

Louis and Harry, who by the looks of it have been texted the latest goss by Liam.

“Why does everyone keep saying it like that?” Zayn wonders aloud, tone a bit grumpy, as Louis bounds over and tweaks his nose.

“Like what?” Louis asks, eyes narrowed. “Like you’re predictable?” He steals Zayn’s cup and sips his tea, probably to hide his smirk, the wanker.

Zayn slumps, resting his chin in his hands. “Maybe,” he answers shiftily.

Off Harry’s eyebrow raise, Zayn hastily adds: “I keep trying to stake him, I swear. ‘v got the perfect stake carved and everything!” Zayn thinks wistfully of the comb he’d whittled into a sharp point the other day in lecture.

Louis throws an arm around Zayn’s shoulder. “So?” he asks. “What’s the problem?”

Zayn huffs. “I like him,” he says darkly. “I dunno how it happened, but when he’s around, I, like... forget about cemeteries and the Hellmouth and the fact that I probably won’t make it out of uni, erm... alive.”

He looks into his cup of tea, quietly brooding now. “And I know I’m the Chosen One and born into every generation kill the vampires everything is evil and my life sucks blah blah blah, but. I don’t want to kill him.”

Over his head, Louis and Harry exchange glances. “Well,” Harry says carefully, “You don’t really have to, until he does something wrong. Right?”

“And wearing those gross Britney Spears sweatshirts don’t count,” Louis quips, spinning in his stool.

“Shut your mouth, she’s a queen,” Harry reprimands, which is about as severe as he ever gets. “But Lou is right. Unless Niall does something more...insidious...than look like an overgrown man-child and eat loads of chips and blood, you’re fine.” He shrugs. “Snog away.”

Zayn tilts his head consideringly, looking at the dregs at the bottom of his tea cup.

“I guess you’re right,” he says slowly, though he doesn’t look convinced. “But Liam doesn’t really like it. And maybe he’s got a point--”

Louis raises a hand to cut Zayn off and leans in, something manic gleaming in his eyes.

“Dear boy,” he says with relish, eyebrow arched. “You leave Liam to _me_.”

 

|

 

Louis’ kind of a nutter when it comes to Liam, is the thing.

Two years ago, when Liam showed up on Zayn’s doorstep looking serious and miserable, Louis was the one to hold Zayn’s hand as Liam broke the news of Zayn’s sacred birthright. Looking back, probably Liam could’ve done it a bit more...tactfully.

How it went was:

Holding a heavy book with the elegantly written _Vampyr_ written across its cover, Liam explained in excruciating detail that Zayn’s life was pretty much over.

No more playing video games and sleeping through midnight. Now life was going to be super-strength. Healing abilities. Lightning fast reflexes. And a duty to seek out underworld nasties and kill them.

“...and that’s why every door you’ve closed lately has splintered off its hinges,” Liam finished, tugging at his tie self-consciously.

Louis glared at Liam for a long moment before slamming the book out of Liam’s hand and asking, “Don’t you care that he could die?”

For Zayn, who’d been afraid Louis would turn tail and run from the freak Zayn had suddenly become, such support was gratifying.

For Liam, it was sort of insulting.

“Slayers only die if Watchers are bad at their jobs,” Liam sniffed, looking instantly more animated, if, you know, angry. “And I’m not bad at anything.”

Giving Louis an imperious glare to match the one he was getting in return, Liam then turned his gaze to Zayn.

“I won’t let you die, Zayn.” Liam looked so grave, so solemn as he said it. “We’re in this together now.”

Louis snorted something rude like “Whatever, _Zac Efron_ \--” (and okay, yeah, Liam’s hair was kind of straight-ironed and High School Musical-y back then, true) but...Zayn believed Liam, in spite of his youth and his over-seriousness and the absurdity of it all. And truthfully, two years later, even now, Zayn still believes Liam.

He’s not dead yet, after all.

But Louis is hard to win over, and when Harry joined their gang a year later (literally the only person Zayn’s ever met who greeted the truth about vampires with a, “Huh. Explains a lot, actually.”) Louis gained a pretty amiable co-conspirator in his mission to drive Liam mad.

“Just wanna ruffle his feathers,” is what Louis will protest, before dumping salt in Liam’s tea or drawing evil mustaches on all the demons in Liam’s books. “I wanna see him show some emotion, you know, keep him on his toes so he doesn’t suddenly decide my Zayner is expendable for the greater good or something.”

“Everything,” Louis says with relish, “is better than indifference.”

And maybe he’s right. Certainly Liam is anything but indifferent when he shoots Louis dirty looks and picks the gum from his hair. But then Louis is the one stuck looking like someone slapped him when Liam comes in the next morning with his short hair gelled up in a quiff, his features somehow more austere, his brown eyes dark and wary.

It’s a little wearisome seeing Louis miss the big giant exclamation point flashing right in front of his face, but Zayn sort of understands.

He knows what it’s like to deny feelings for someone wholly unsuitable. To wanna mess someone up, make them lose their cool, kiss the lopsided smirk off their face, rifle fingers through hair and make a blush rise to the surface of skin even though, strictly speaking, there might not be any blood running through that person’s veins anymore--

Erm. Anyway.

Louis’ obsession with Liam is literally the only thing keeping both of them off Zayn’s own back when it comes to Niall. So for now, he’ll look the other way as Louis sabotages every cup of tea Liam tries to make.

Especially because he’s obviously got his own issues to worry about.

Blonde, blue-eyed, Irish, and decidedly vampiric issues.

 

|

  
The problem is, Niall’s inscrutable. He’s lived for a long time and not one of those goddamn years has taught him how to socialize with actual humans, Zayn reckons.

“I think he likes you,” Harry says whenever Zayn rings him, because Louis only talks about Liam these days and Liam flat-out refuses to discuss the topic with Zayn.

“Yeah?” Zayn is always ridiculously happy to hear that confirmation, which feels sickeningly akin to desperation.

“Yeah. But maybe you should ask him yourself? Because he’s a vampire, but vampires can dick around, too. So, best to be clear. And if he’s just playing with you, you can like...stake him.”

Harry isn’t the most helpful at the best of times, but. He might have a point.

To tell the truth, Liam is probably right when he says Zayn shouldn’t pursue a vampire. In fact, Zayn’s thought the same thing a time or two himself.

But, like. Not for the reason Liam keeps saying. Zayn’s not especially afraid of Niall tearing out his jugular, because he might be a Slayer’s mortal enemy but he’s also the type to stop at puppy stores and laugh at little kids who fall over. There’s no real threat to Zayn’s life, here.

The threat to Zayn’s heart, though? The threat to his sanity?

Yeah, that’s. Very real.

 

|

  
“Are we ever gonna go on a date?”

The newborn vampire under Zayn goes still, features torn between bloodthirsty and confused. “Ehm. No...?” it tries.

“Not you,” Zayn says impatiently, rearing back then shoving a stake through the vamp’s chest.

“ _You_ ,” he says pointedly, dusting the ashes from his hands and standing up. From his place leaning against a crypt, Niall cocks an eyebrow, arms folded. He’s wearing a denim jacket and concert t-shirt and huge white trainers on his feet. It’s ninety-nine percent possible that his black jeans have got zippers at the ankles. He looks like an idiot.

Zayn’s really into it. Embarrassingly so.

“You wanna talk about this _now_?” Niall asks, and only the affection touching the corners of his mouth is saving him from a stake to his own chest.

As good timing goes, Zayn’s pretty sure his entire life is like, a classic anti-example. So it’s no big deal if he chooses now to get a little confirmation. Not as if anything is cut and dry between them, anyway. Not like Niall’s made it clear what he even wants from Zayn, other than to snark about his form when slaying. And the occasional snog.

The way Zayn figures it, if things’re going to meet their inevitable and messy end, the faster they actually begin, the better.

“Well, for all I know, you could be plotting my gruesome death as we speak,” Zayn says, coming closer. He’s trying for a predatory stalk but thinks, sadly, that he’s probably only managed a petulant stomp. “Don’t I deserve a proper wining and dining first?”

Niall makes a face. “What d’you mean, proper?” he asks indignantly. “Just last week I shared m’chips with you!”

Zayn’s only answer is a withering look. He leans in, caging Niall against the crypt with his arms. They’re of a height, the two of them, but sometimes when Zayn’s still feeling the adrenaline from a fight, he fancies himself a bit taller, a bit more dangerous.

Niall seems to like it, at least. Something speculative gleams in his eyes and he places his hands on the sloping lines of Zayn’s hips, thumbs digging into the notches of his bones.

“I’m a good girl,” Zayn says, voice low. “Raised right. It’s just not on, you swooping in to fight back the forces of darkness and, like. Steal kisses.”

“You don’t usually seem t’ mind,” Niall says, but Zayn cuts him off.

“I don’t like surprises, Cryptic Guy.” he says, and even Zayn didn’t expect his own voice to be that firm. “My life’s full of ‘em already, innit? I just wanna know where I stand with you.”

For a moment, Niall looks ready to argue. But then, searching Zayn’s face, his expression softens. “Yeah, okay,” he says finally. “Let’s go on a date, ‘f that’s what you want. But can you can handle it, Slayer?”

Zayn rolls his eyes, unaccountably relieved that he's not had to do something unseemly, like wheedle. “You watch Corrie and go to Heart tribute shows for fun,” he says. “The only thing I’m worried about when it comes to dating you is dying of boredom.”

Niall tries to scowl, but laughter comes instead. “You’re right,” he says good-naturedly. “But don’t worry, Zaynie. I’ll show you a good time.”

And then he leans in, hands slipping into the back pockets of Zayn’s jeans, tugging Zayn closer for a proper kiss, mouth slanting in slow, languorous pulls.

“Y’ve hardly got a bum on ya,” Niall drawls fondly when they part, nuzzling along the underside of Zayn’s jaw.

“You’re one to talk,” Zayn retorts, reaching down and gathering a fistful of denim in his hands. The momentum of his movement brings Niall’s body closer to his own, and for a minute, Zayn’s almost positive he’s going to get a boner in a cemetery.

No. Absolutely not. He’s still got a modicum of pride left, after all.

“Pick me up tomorrow, at 8,” he says instead, leaning away, a bit breathless. Niall looks unruffled, though there’s a tension to his jaw and a notch between his brows that means he’s not entirely carefree.

“You’re pushy, y’know,” Niall responds. “You don’t have t’ be. ‘S not like it’s a hardship, taking you out. Dunno what took you so long t' ask, in fact."

Zayn shrugs, trying not to blush. Trying not to show how much that little kernel of acknowledgement means. Trying to be cool.

“I figure if ‘m gonna give Liam a heart attack, there better be a good reason,” he responds, going for nonchalant. “Hit-and-run snogging ‘s not worth the early death of my Watcher, Niall.”

Niall throws his head back and cackles, fingers hooked through Zayn’s belt loops. “Nothing less than shagging all over his dusty tomes, eh?” he leers, waggling his eyebrows.

Zayn cracks a smile, bumping his nose against Niall’s. “Promises, promises,” he says.

  
|

 

Of course, when Liam finds out about the date (as in, when Louis reads Zayn’s mobile message to Harry and tattles to Liam later) he insists on escorting. And because Liam is going, so is Louis. Harry seems bemused by the whole thing, but there's free chicken tikka masala in it for him, so he comes loping along as well.

"What the fuck." Zayn says flatly, when the three lads arrive at his door.

“You might be the Slayer, but you’re also thinking with your dick,” Liam says firmly, striding in and studiously avoiding Zayn’s suddenly borderline murderous gaze.

Louis follows, slinging an arm around Liam’s neck. “Your Watcher’s afraid that you’ll wrongly interpret Niall ripping out of your jugular as, you know, romantic,” he clarifies. He ducks a kick from Zayn, taking Liam stumbling with him.

Harry scratches his neck, loping across the threshold. “I just want a curry,” he says helpfully.

Zayn heaves a sigh comprised of approximately 99.8 percent of the air in his lungs. “Get out,” he says, without any real hope that the losers will actually listen to him.

True to form, they simply stand there in Zayn’s front entrance, Louis with an unapologetic grin on his face, Liam with his arms resolutely folded, and Harry with the slightly pained look of someone who’s very hungry and kind of bored.

A moment later, Zayn swears under his breath, and closes the door. “If any of you wankers kills the mood, I’ll kill _you_ ,” he warns.

Even Louis knows better than to point out that Zayn’s not exactly allowed to threaten the wholesale slaughter of a very human group of friends.

After all, there’s no rules on maiming or temporary incapacitation.

(Zayn’s looked.)

  
|

  
When Niall shows up like twenty minutes later, he looks like a bloody catalogue model.

“This is the first time I’ve ever seen you wear anything other than those fucking huge trainers,” Zayn says, awed. “Your feet are _normal_ sized.”

Niall grins. “I feel like ‘m cheating you out of something here, Zayno,” he says cheerfully, bouncing on his heels. “You know what they say about big feet.”

Zayn lets his eyes travel from Niall’s shiny black shoes, up the length of his charcoal grey trousers--well-cut over his narrow hips--then up and across the broad expanse of his shoulders under the crisply white button-down shirt. There’s a slice of throat gleaming pale and vulnerable where the buttons have been kept undone, and Zayn can just make out a constellation of freckles that is making his mouth water. As if he’s the vampire here, and not Niall.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, voice low. “I think I’ll handle the disappointment just fine.”

Niall’s grin dims, grows more serious, almost predatory. “Handle it, eh?” he says, and though there’s a twinkle in his blue eyes, there’s also a suggestive challenge in his voice.

“Oh my God,” is heard from somewhere inside the flat, “the innuendo is thicker than their skulls, _help_ \--”

Zayn scowls, and slams the door shut behind him. “Shall we?” he grits out, praying the lads will wait at least fifteen minutes before following.

Niall nods, laughter flaring once more in his eyes. Grabbing Zayn’s hand, letting his thumb swipe over the sensitive thin skin at the back of Zayn’s wrist, he smiles. Something sharp and bright cuts through Zayn at that tilt of his mouth, the slow ache of the promise it contains.

They let the moment spin out, Niall’s smile and Zayn’s bated breath, and silence coming from the flat. Then:

“Just so you know, our skulls aren’t the only things that’re thick,” Niall says loudly, clearly letting his voice carry.

A barely audible _ewwwwwwwww_ comes from somewhere in the flat, and Zayn can’t help but smirk.

Serves Louis right, honestly.

  
|

  
They don’t even get halfway to the restaurant before it kinda goes to shite.

It’s London and it’s a Saturday night and his life sucks, so of course the first thing that happens as Zayn and Niall exit the tube at Monument is a vampire tries to grab Zayn by the wrist and pull him into an alley behind the nearest Boots.

“Fucking hell--”

Zayn is caught by surprise, so the vamp gets the better of him for a second, grip sickeningly strong around his neck. He’s about to rear back and flip, using the momentum to throw the vamp to the grown and stake him when out of nowhere, Niall interjects with a roar.

“Get off!”

Zayn is stunned, thrown against the concrete and left to stare as Niall moves, sharp jabs and vicious twists, and makes quick work of the vamp. A puff of ash and then there’s only Niall, yellow in the eyes and fangs extended.

“Zayn?” he asks, and reaches out a hand to him before a blur of motion takes him down to the ground, hard.

Another vampire, and oh look, another! And about three more, where the _fuck_ are they all coming from?!

Grimly, but with a thread of adrenaline that spins into blood that comes fast and heavy through his limbs, Zayn launches himself into the fray.

Niall’s back on his feet now, launching vicious punches, cracking bone and producing the wet sound of broken noses, winded bellies. His blazer flies behind him, and he cuts a dashing figure in the dark, outlined by the moon, all long limbs and contained violence. But for the ridges across his forehead and the glint of his fangs, he’d look like a particularly sophisticated bruiser having a bit of a row.

“Sorry, mate,” Niall says savagely, throwing a vamp at Zayn, who neatly stakes it through the chest. “Haven’t got the heart to let ya live.”

“Oh, poor taste,” Zayn says, kicking one of the vampires in the stomach, watching Niall catch it by the waist. “Better one--’how’s the headache, love?’”

The vampire looks confused, as does Niall. “What headache?” he asks, and Zayn promptly takes its head in his hands and rips it off.

In the explosion of ash, there’s a stunned silence, and then Niall is cackling again. “You’re twisted, man,” he says, admiration in his tone, and that more than anything gets to Zayn.

Because it occurs to Zayn, as he fights alongside Niall, back to back, sweeping low to kick and using his slight form to make the most of agility and speed rather than Niall’s brute force, that they complement each other.

That while he’s been worrying all this time about how different the two of them are, how their worlds are so separate, maybe he should instead be worrying about how they’re alike.

  
|

 

Something about the fight, the shadow of imminent death, the unmitigated power of every blow and twist of his body, makes Zayn unbelievably horny after he slays.

Hungry and horny. He tells Niall this, and there’s almost something reverent that comes over Niall’s eyes in response.

“Can work with both, if I’m honest,” he says, eyes glinting.

Niall shoves Zayn against the brick surface of the nearby wall, and then he’s kissing him, rough and biting, cool breath and smooth skin, slanting mouths and slick tongues, hands tugging and desperate. There’s this thing he does, sometimes, placing his hand over Zayn’s heart, like he’s reminding himself of the life beating there. Mostly it seems like a self-inflicted punishment, a rueful tilt to his eyebrows whenever he takes his palm away. But right now, Niall groans into Zayn’s kiss as soon as his fingers splay over Zayn’s chest, like that heartbeat is all that’s keeping him going.

For his part, Zayn holds onto Niall’s wrist, rubs the tendons there, marvels at the contained strength, at the way Niall is matching him motion for motion, movement for movement. They’re a study in contrasts in so many ways, but Niall is still--Niall is his match.

“Come back t’ my place,” Niall suggests, eyes dark blue and intent. “It’s a bit, well. It’s a crypt. But I want you there.” Zayn bites at Niall’s jaw, blunt teeth, scraping at the tender skin. He groans. “Please, Zayn.”

The problem is, Zayn doesn’t even have to think about it. There’s the ghost of Liam’s disapproving eyebrows, but after a minute, that disturbing image dissolves, and all that exists is that clawing sort of breathless feeling Zayn gets around Niall. Like he’s about to come out of his skin and he doesn’t understand why.

“Yeah, okay,” he says.

  
|

  
They run into Louis snogging Liam against the tube entrance at London Bridge, Harry taking pretentious Instagram photos of the Shard across the way.

“Oh,” Liam says, coughing, when he sees them. His face is red and hair is ruffled, but he still carries a sense of dignity about him, a shyness that’s intrinsic.

Louis, on the other hand, looks debauched. And smug. He flexes, all absurdly huge biceps and wide chest. “Oops,” he says. “We sort of got sidetracked, I guess.”

Niall arches an eyebrow. “Us too,” he says eloquently, and Harry flashes a thumbs up as discreetly as possible (not very, in other words) over his iPhone.

Zayn rubs his hand over his face. “Listen, just. Don’t let Louis into the crossbow cabinet now that he’s gonna be in your trousers, too,” he says, and it should be a joke, but it really isn’t.

Louis grins like he knows it’s a real threat, and Liam looks vaguely ill, but pleased enough underneath it all. For a moment, it’s so startlingly domestic, two couples and Harry, snapping away, that Zayn feels like drowning in the Thames rushing nearby.

But then Niall tugs at his wrist, and the supernatural grace of him, the way his eyes are still slightly yellow, remind Zayn what this really is.

“G’nite, you two,” Zayn says softly to his average lad friends enjoying a relatively normal night, and tries not to feel jealousy as he follows his creature-of-the-night maybe-sort-of-boyfriend all the way back to his crypt.

  
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“So tonight sort of sucked, man.”

The words are out of Zayn's mouth before he can stop them, and even to his own ears, they sound whingey.

It's not quite fair, either, seeing as he and Niall are having a rather nice time. Sprawled out on Niall's threadbare couch (a relic from a particularly raucous university party in North London some seventy years ago) they're tucked together under a blanket and watching old episodes of NMTB on Niall's dodgy telly. With the smell of Chinese takeaway permeating the air, and the occasional low groan escaping from Zayn's throat as Niall noses past the sensitive vein in his neck...

Yeah, it's a good night. And Zayn can almost pretend he's just an average guy, watching a show with his equally average boyfriend.

And then Zayn remembers that there are blood bags littered among the empty cartons of chicken lo mein, and that they're in a crypt that Niall remodeled to look like a flat rather than, well, a real flat.

Also, like, they haven't even talked about what they're doing here, so Zayn's pretty sure Niall's can’t even actually technically be called his boyfriend.

Zayn is not going to think about the fact that this uncertainty bothers him way more than the bloodbags and the crypt.

Niall laughs, soft. "You’re not really an optimist, are ya?" he says, and sounds immeasurably fond. "Not surprised, you Slayers are always doom an’ gloom. Ah, Zazza."

Narrowing his eyes at the nickname because otherwise it might show on his face how much it pleases him, Zayn pinches Niall's cheek.

"Mate, be serious," he commands.

Niall tips his head back, laughing again. His Adam's apple bobs, and something bottoms out in Zayn's belly.

"Can't be serious," Niall says. "Not especially when you're sayin’ such daft things instead of using your mouth for _much_ cooler things--"

Zayn rolls his eyes. Leave it to Niall to call something like blow jobs 'cool.'

"You humans, man. I know it's been awhile since I've had blood pumping t' my brain but I don't remember overthinking stuff the way you do."

"I bet literally no one's ever accused you of overthinking," Zayn says unkindly, and folds his arms.

Niall sighs gustily. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," he groans. "Zayn, what is there t' even complain about? We fought, we snogged, we lived. Good day in my books." He rakes a hand through his hair, big tufts sticking up every which way. "Lemme ask you something, okay--"

Quick as a flash (hey, his supernatural reflexes have been around a lot longer than Zayn’s supernatural reflexes) Niall's got Zayn stretched out under him on the tiny couch, hands holding Zayn's wrists in a tight grip, knees wedged around Zayn's waist.

Despite being a bit immobile, Zayn can't help the tiny thrill that runs through him, at odds--as always--with the instinctual tingle at the back of his neck that is screaming at him to kill the vampire holding him down.

"Zayn," Niall says, and his face is as tender and open as always, even though his tone is stern. "D'you like me?"

Which, well. Is sort of the whole problem here, Zayn thinks.

"Yes," he says mutinously.

Niall arches an eyebrow. "Alright, don't sound so happy about it," he says dryly. "Next question: do we get on?"

Zayn makes a face. "Yeah, you know we do," he says. "Come on, Ni. What're you trying to prove here--"

In gentle reprimand, Niall squeezes his knees around Zayn's waist. "That you're just looking for things to go wrong with us," he says, and even though sometimes he looks (and acts) all of thirteen, it's times like these that Zayn can see the age around his eyes, the sense of weariness and caution that clings to him under all the exuberance and cheer.

Zayn swallows. Because, like. He's not wrong. And it occurs to Zayn that it might be nice if he confirmed for Niall how much he doesn't want things to go wrong, at least.

"I..." he starts, but Niall cuts him off.

"The thing is," Niall begins thoughtfully, looming over him, thumbs rubbing absently at the pulse points of his wrists, "You're a good Slayer, Zed. A deadly one. But you're so fucking neurotic I feel like you're taking the piss, half the time."

Zayn narrows his eyes. "Well I'm _not_ ," he says crossly.

Niall grins, sinking down onto Zayn, groin to groin, eyes bright and clear. "What's the problem?" he asks. "You like me, I like you. We have fun together. Y'make me happy, and after a century and change, it's actually gettin' harder to find people who can do that."

The fight goes out of Zayn at the almost shy admission. Niall’s always seemed like a people-person...people-vampire...but there is something to be said about the fact that Zayn thinks he might be the first creature, human or otherwise, to step into Niall’s crypt, like, ever.

Maybe Niall’s been as lonely as Zayn. Maybe Zayn’s been as good for Niall, as fun and exciting and confusing and interesting, as Niall has been for Zayn.

“I want to date you,” Zayn blurts out. “Like, I want to see you more regularly than every Tuesday at the sickest graveyard to hit Southeast London. I want--” he tucks his knees around Niall’s waist, bringing them flush together. “I want something that ‘m not sure I can have. ‘Cause you an’ I, we’re all about death and stuff, Niall. That’s who we are. We’re sworn enemies, even. I, just...”

He fights the sudden, stupid lump in his throat, the longing when he says: “I want there to be a reason I’m not staking you every time we meet.”

Niall’s eyebrows climb. “And here I thought it was because of m’ sparkling personality,” he wisecracks, though it’s gentle. At Zayn’s grimace, Niall’s face goes tender and he drops his hands to Zayn’s waist. “Hey,” he says softly, and honestly, he’s got to be the worst vampire ever. A soft touch, really.

Zayn can’t say he minds, though. Unable to help himself, he reaches up, combs a hand through Niall’s hair, anchoring his fingers at Niall’s nape.

“I saw you Called, y’know.” Niall tilts his head, sinks down even more, rests his cheek against Zayn’s chest where his heart is beating steady. “Everyone knew that the Slayer was gonna be a boy. That the curse had moved from a woman to a man for the first time in literally all of history. And I wanted to see who it’d be. Wanted to see what the threat would be, if any. So I took a stroll through the Watcher archives and followed your Liam t’ your flat. And I hid behind a properly shaded tree, and I...I saw you Called.”

Zayn feels poleaxed, like something has struck him straight through the gut and sliced him clean through.

“You--” he starts, almost winded.

“I saw you Called and you didn’t look happy, Zayn. Didn’t look pleased or power hungry or even the littlest bit excited. You looked frightened. And I swore then, I think, that if I could, I would help.” There’s a sincerity in Niall’s voice that rings of truth so completely that Zayn can’t even find it within himself to feel creeped out. He touches Niall’s neck, taps his fingers down the first knob of his spine, and asks:

“Why?”

Niall is quiet for a moment. Then, “Because I remember. How it felt. T’ be something and then t’ be something else...t’ become something you don’t understand.” He sighs, nuzzles against Zayn’s chest, tightens his grip on Zayn’s hips. “I wish I’d had someone t’get me through it then.”

“And now?” Zayn asks, voice low, heart aching. “Who’s getting you through it now?”

Niall smiles, a wide happy thing that Zayn can feel against his chest. “You, ya lump.” Raising himself on his elbows, shuffling over Zayn, Niall looks seriously at him. “Bein’ good, it’s something I have t' actively decide, every day of my unlife. The demon is strong but I’m...still me? Like, it’s not about a soul. The soul doesn’t make ya who you are. Neither does your heart or even really your memories. It’s the other stuff...the choices you make. The people you care about. How you take care of ‘em. What you do. That’s what matters.”

There was a vampire once, cursed with a soul. And another one, later on. Both vampires fell in love with the same Slayer. But one of them, the second one--he fell in love with the Slayer before he got his soul. Became infatuated. Got the soul as a reward for undertaking a series of trials. Zayn’s always thought it a bit naff, the melodrama and sacrifice of both these creatures.

Maybe it’s because he knows Niall. Knows the heart that, although it’s not beating, shapes the core of who Niall is, even in death. And all of it, everything, is one hundred times more noble and honest and good than any soul-cursing or trial could make it.

“Are you saying I matter, then?” Zayn teases, voice soft. “Is this your way of sayin’ you want to date, too? Maybe get some coffee sometime, before hunting down a Chaos demon or three?”

Niall breathes out a laugh. “Or five,” he says, muffled. “After dealing with your Watcher and that bloke who always looks like he’s gonna stick gum in my hair...it’ll be five Chaos demons before I relax.”

Zayn tilts his head, moves his hand down over Niall’s back, smoothing the thin material of Niall’s button up, reaching the lip of Niall’s trousers where his fingers flirt with the thin strip of exposed skin.

“Relax, hm?” Zayn hums, relishing the sharp intake of breath and the way Niall tenses at his touch. “I mean, I could help with that.”

So he does.

  
|

  
It’s not just blood and guts and viscera and curses and the Hellmouth.

‘Course, it feels like that sometimes. As the Slayer, Zayn sees a lot of death. He knows one day someone he loves will go. It’s the law of Slaying--don’t get close, because when you get close, people die. But even with that warning, even with every narrowly avoided disaster, every annual Apocalypse, there’s nothing in him that can convincingly make the argument to give what he has up.

Here’s the thing. They’re in this cafe, surrounded by badly baked pasties and slightly stale coffee, and Harry is whittling stakes into the shape of woodland creatures because he is a giant weirdo, and Louis’ head is bent towards Liam’s like they're two branches growing from the same root, and in the darkest corner of the shop, Niall is strumming a guitar and singing an old Irish song about love and ale.

For the longest time, Zayn kept looking for a reason. A reason to keep fighting, when his life was all about killing. When he felt the only thing he could offer the world was death. And now, he’s realizing his gift isn’t death at all. It’s protection. It’s love.

The reason he’s fighting, it’s because there’s something worth it. Four things, really.

Niall looks up from his guitar, and there’s a moment where Zayn can see every year that Niall’s lived on this earth, every death and sorrow and guilty thought he’s carried in his chest. Can see how eternal the concept of immortality truly is, and how lonely.

Perhaps he’s not the only one being given something to fight for, then.

  
|

  
Zayn can smell the creature before he sees it.

This is half because Zayn is a vampire slayer and charged by sacred birthright to dispatch demons of the night and therefore equipped with certain skills, and half because the creature in question smells like--

“Oi, vinegar _again_?”

Zayn steps out of the shadows, outraged. “You know I hate vinegar. You’re doing this on purpose now.”

Niall shrugs. “Look, part of bein’ with someone means diversifying their tastes. You’ll like the vinegar. Give it a try.”

Zayn screws up his nose. “No,” he says, “And don’t think you’re gonna get a kiss with your breath reeking of that,” he warns. “I’ve had a really long day because Liam’s rowing with Lou and decided to test me on ancient Sumerian, and I’m not adding that stench to the list of shite I’m angry about.”

Niall rolls his eyes, slips the hand not holding chips into Zayn’s back pocket. “When are you ever not angry?” he asks, overly polite. “Only, it’d be nice of you to warn me so I can take advantage of that once in a bloody fucking century event--”

Zayn swats at Niall’s chest, eliciting an oof! “You weren’t complaining about me being too angry last night,” he says, because sometimes it’s fun to get sly and smirky with Niall.

“No, I wasn’t,” Niall agrees, smiling broadly. He tugs Zayn closer, nose to nose, goes slightly cross-eyed. “Wanna go check out some newly risen baby vamps tonight?” he asks.

Zayn sighs, closing his eyes, feeling a shiver down his spine at the tickle of Niall’s eyelashes against his own.

“Nah,” he says. “There’s a contestant on X-Factor that I think might be a vengeance demon. Only way to explain how that other dude keeps winning.”

Niall laughs, a warm, broad sound. “Ah, so. Chillin’?” he asks, imitating Zayn’s accent.

Zayn lets his lips press against Niall’s for an instant, dry, quick, still sending a flash of lightning down his spine, heat through his belly.

“Chillin’,” he confirms.

The London fog rolls in and the city keeps breathing. Zayn smiles.

Takes Niall’s hand.

Follows his home.

  
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End file.
